


Devotion Unspoken

by quietdetective



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Literally me just being super gay, Love Letters, M/M, OR IS IT, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sappy, Sappy Crowley (Good Omens), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-09-28 00:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20417147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietdetective/pseuds/quietdetective
Summary: It was a sunny day when Aziraphale decided it was time to finally do a tidy up of his shop, though not so much as to attract customers. He flipped the sign to closed and got to work, going to the depths of his shop and moving aside boxes of books he had yet to unpack. Looking through some of the old boxes that were filled to the brim, Aziraphale found quite an odd box that was hidden away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who decided to write something else rather than their three unfinished works?? It's me of course. Idea taken from dickwheelie's post on tumblr  
[original idea post](https://dickwheelie.tumblr.com/post/186425585270)  
Also on tumblr  
[Link to tumblr version](https://goodforsomeone.tumblr.com/post/187310594431/devotion-unspoken)

It was a sunny day when Aziraphale decided it was time to finally do a tidy up of his shop, though not so much as to attract customers. He flipped the sign to closed and got to work, going to the depths of his shop and moving aside boxes of books he had yet to unpack. Looking through some of the old boxes that were filled to the brim, Aziraphale found quite an odd box that was hidden away.

The small box was made from a light wood and was covered with carefully written script with overlays of so many different types of flowers and other plants that it would take hours to figure out all the different species. The script itself was delicate but hardly looked like words at times. Aziraphale could see an _angel_ here and a _love_ there. Once opened, untying a lovely red ribbon that was surely made of silk and looked to have barely aged a day since originally wrapped around the box, in laid many different types of paper, covered from top to bottom with the same careful script as the box. From napkins to scraps to full lengths of paper, all of them looked to be equally old, and yet all of them had survived years of neglect. Aziraphale had no clue as to where these letters had originated from, for there were many who had entered his shop over the last few hundred years and if they didn’t look to be trying to buy a book, Aziraphale tended to leave them to their own devices.

One piece of paper fluttered to the ground, or well it was really a napkin, and Aziraphale quickly picked it up before it could blow away, despite there being no wind in his shop. He unwrapped the small square and found more of the same script, and finally read it.

_June 7th, 1821_

_There’ve been many times I looked at you and was dazzled by your words, so softly spoken and delicate I wonder how you let me hear them. I’ve looked at you for so long with such longing I wonder if you just ignore it or if you’ve gotten your head stuck in your book for so long you forget I’m there. I wonder if it’s just God’s way of saying look at what you cannot have, for you surely cannot feel the same. It’s alright though, for if you allow me to continue to gaze at your lovely blue eyes, I can forgive most anything._

Carefully placing the letter back in the box, Aziraphale was surprised by the fluttering feeling in his own chest. In many ways, he could understand it. Being allowed to gaze upon something so wonderful that sometimes you wonder if you truly deserve it. He tried not to think of a certain demon at this point, placing the lid back on the box and carrying it to his desk. Excavating this wonderous box required a more concentrated gaze, and well, he couldn’t much do that on the floor could he.

Once placed on the desk, Aziraphale began to look at the box more closely, making sure not to smudge the careful drawings that appeared to have been done in pencil in contrast to the inked words. How many hours were spent on the box alone was a mystery, it looked like a courting gift? He slipped on his spectacles, enhancing his vision like a magnifying glass while they surely weren’t supposed to. He tried to identify the flora on the box, seeing acacia blossoms, camellia, azalea, daisies, daffodils, carnations, and so many more. Aziraphale was in awe really, the careful shading and sketching, the way each flower looked so realistic that if they had colour, they would look ready to fall right off the box. He couldn’t help but wonder why they weren’t coloured in, a though crossing his mind that it was a gift unfinished, perhaps the writer and artist passed before they could give it to their beloved. The thought saddened him, but there was little that could be done now, the letters were from two centuries ago.

Aziraphale removed the lid of the box and pulled free another letter, careful to not damage the fragile paper, a scrap that looked like it was taken from the back of a ripped book. 

_June 20th, 1820_

_The way you look at me causes my heart to ache so furiously that I am sure I am in the most blissful state of hell imaginable. You insist you are the good one, yet you allow such suffering unto me. Perhaps you rationalize it with the idea I am but a dastardly devil. I am a demon, but I find it is alright as long as you continue to come back despite it. It hurts to look and know you cannot return my feelings, from either your own stubborn pride or faith in heaven. You are the holder of my heart and I ache for you to allow me the privilege of returning._

-he pulled a cue card out next, enraptured-

_August 27th, 1860_

_I wonder sometimes if you know how to affect me. If you were to know that with a smile and a simple please, it would get me to move heaven and hell for you. I love you more than anything in the world, and that is terrifying. The last time I loved something so much I was thrown out, cast away like what I thought and felt was blasphemy. It seems that’s all anyone feels these days, to love another man is punishable in Her eyes, as if She ever cared enough to have judgement on it. She no longer cares for me, but you would never believe that. You seem to believe I have at least a little good in me, and maybe I like that._

-next a piece of paper that was close to tearing, but a quick miracle saved it-

_December 25th, 1845._

_There are times when I look at you and hate you for the way you make me feel, how oblivious you seem to be with your reprimands and scoffs, sometimes I wonder if you truly hate me. Then you turn around and offer me a slice of cake, read me a passage in your book, give me such a soft look that I fall for you all over again. I know you don’t recognize what I feel, I know you refuse to recognize the love I feel for you as that. I wonder if you’ll ever notice that all the good I do is because of you. I wonder if you know you helped pull me back from the ashes of my fall, brushing off all the soot of regret and the dust of hate. _

_I love you more than I would like to admit, I love you far more than I feel you could ever love me, if you were ever to recuperate this love. I know you’ve had other lovers, the blush against your cheeks when you meet up with me after a rendezvous, the sly smiles at young men we walk by when we meet, the far too familiar greetings to others. I don’t mind. I can’t. It’s your life, you do as you please. It still hurts though, to be denied for so long due to our respective sides. There’s nothing wrong with such relations, we both know this, but with relations between us? I have fallen far below you and we both know if our relationship at this stage is ever found out it would be the end times for us both. _

_I wish for nothing more than the day we can meet, and I can pull you close in my arms, and kiss you with all the passion I have had to hold in. I’ve made many stars in my time, but you shine brighter than them all, my angel._

Aziraphale blinked a few times at the end of the letter, feeling only slightly overwhelmed. They were all surprisingly sweet, and quite sad. From the dates on the letters, they seemed to have been written over a lifetime, a lifetime of constant longing for someone he could never have. The letters were obviously never to be sent, none containing any self identifiers or envelopes with addresses and they were written on many things that wouldn’t be used for a formal letter, though maybe that was on purpose. They read like they would be prosecuted if the two’s relations were ever found out, presumably due to them both being men. They read like someone who was desperate for change but expected refusal. He picked up the next one.

_April 16th, 1861._

_Your hands look so soft despite how much you do with them. How much care you put into your craft never callousing your delicate fingertips. The tight curl your hair stays in despite fashion, along with your phrases. I can’t help but wonder what you’d do when it goes out of fashion, though knowing you as I do you probably wouldn’t care and continue. If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I would think you never worked a day in your life. The things I’ve seen you do with such little care for what they’d do to you, always needing me to run after you to ensure your safety. I wonder if you do it on purpose, just to stay close to me at times. We’ve gone years without seeing each other, yet I continue to write to you. I wonder if you think about me as much as I think about you. If your mind wanders like mine does. I doubt the day will come that we can be frank with each other, but I still have some hope despite it all. _

Looking through the box there were many along the same vein, lamenting about how little his subject seemed to pay attention, how he saw good in the writer despite the writer’s protests. It was bittersweet in a sense, both refusing to believe the other in any case.

_November 16th, 1849_

_You held me last night, it was the oddest thing. The closest we’ve come before this was mere hand holding, which we quickly explained away before any implications could come about. Yet you held me close, such a loving embrace I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. Even Before, I don’t think anyone held me like that. With such love. It was due to me panicking of course, a bout which happens often after a visit. I’m not exactly what they want me to be as you know, they want bigger things, more targeted. They don’t understand people as well as you and I. The atrocities they can commit, the beauty in which they can create. I don’t think any could make something as beautiful as you though. You whispered in my ear like a lover, which I know we cannot be. It’s easier to think of excuses for our actions rather than reasons for them, it’s safer. There’s a deniability with excuses, and if you look too closely at our reasons you could see what those actions meant. You’d laugh if you heard me say that, sometimes I wonder if you think lowly of me. I try my best I hope you know, I try to keep us both safe. _

_You held me last night though, and I felt warm. I haven’t felt warm in so long. Not since I fell. You told me that it was to keep me out of trouble, but we both know better. I think that was the first time I’ve thought you could feel the same._

The bell of the bookshop went off, and Aziraphale jumped. He was engrossed in this love story over the ages, though by the dates it didn’t seem that this letter’s content went anywhere sadly. The footsteps were more concerning for now though, as Aziraphale did try his best to ensure no book sales happened, so he got up to investigate it. Thankfully, it was only a patron who came by occasionally to drop off books of interest, though they hardly brought anything Aziraphale wanted. Their interactions were normally pleasant enough at the very least, but today the angel’s mind was elsewhere. It was on those letters, those love letters that didn’t seem to ever be sent.

The writing wasn’t the best, it rambled and repeated itself, yet it was heartfelt. Aziraphale could feel the love on the worn pages, the crinkled edges carrying small doodles of flowers that were more than likely drawn while the writer was trying to think of how to word his next sentence. The drawings improved over time and looking back at the box he could see some of the more faded flowers were good but could be improved. A lifetime of love in a box, and Aziraphale kept wondering if the other man ever confessed. If either of the men ever confessed, for the angel was sure that the other man felt the same. He refused to believe the subject didn’t love the writer.

The angel grabbed the next letter.

_September 20th, 1835_

_I dreamt of you last night. It was the most pleasant dream I’ve ever had. We held hands and walked together, we were allowed to kiss and hug and do all the mushy human things we are normally deprived of. You held me like I was important, and I don’t know if I ever felt like that. You know how Mother was, She insisted She loved us all equally, but it was clear She had Her favourites. I wonder sometimes if She sent me to work in a faraway place so She could forget She made me. I don’t even know if She liked the Garden I made for Her._

_I dreamt of you last night and I forgot about all of this. All the pain and suffering we’ve been through in our long lives, it was like what others call heaven, though I don’t know anymore. You laughed at me when I told you this and kissed me again, insisting that I don’t think too hard about it. Heaven may not welcome me, but I still hope I don’t corrupt you so much it won’t welcome you._

Aziraphale sighed softly, running a finger along the careful lettering. He picked up the next letter, and then the next, then the next. He barely read the dates, all out of order yet it didn’t seem to matter. The letters came one or twice a year, all of them unsigned and covered with doodles. Some had sketches that were a lot worse than the flowers, others held such detailed scenery that Aziraphale would be looking more at the pictures than the words describing the writer’s love, his chivalry, the words that are thrown around that hurt the writer but never for long. It hurt the angel’s heart to know that the writer merely brushed these instances aside, but maybe he mentioned it and they didn’t happen again. He hoped at least.

He let his hand go to the box, looking forward to more, when he realized it was the last one. Aziraphale held it up, this one written on proper paper rather than a napkin or wax paper or book page, and was similarly covered in drawings that were so lovingly drawn that they still overwhelmed the angel’s senses. Aziraphale wondered how he couldn’t feel the loved box before today.

_September 30th, 1862_

_My love I find myself yearning for you more and more each passing year, it’s quite inconvenient. I wish to tell you everyday but the threats in our lives seem to be coming around more and more often. I wish to tell you everything, but I still fear you will never see me as anything more than our first meeting. A demon meant to come tempt you away. Sometimes it seems like you can’t accept who I am but remain my friend for what I could become. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not._

_I am to meet you soon, we haven’t seen each other in a few months and call me sentimental but I already miss you. Can you imagine how long we used to go without seeing each other? That seems unthinkable now. _

_I hope you forgive me one day for what I must ask of you. I ask so little in return for what I do, and I never expect it to be returned. Sometimes it’s easier to remain hiding than it is to risk jumping over the edge in hopes someone will catch you my angel, but I am tired of hiding. I love you so much and I hope you’ll understand that I’ll never leave you as long as I can help it. I will love you till the world’s light goes out, along with all the stars in the sky. Please just trust me._

Aziraphale let the letter fall from his fingertips, letting out a slow breath. It was the last of the letters, and the angel didn’t know what to think of it. An ambiguous end, for it was unclear if the writer told the other man his feelings, his devotion, if the writer wrote another letter and sent that one to his beloved. If he died before he could finish his lifetime of love letters. It was clear that he was planning to ask the other man for something, perhaps his love in return?

The angel carefully placed each letter back into the box, retying the ribbon and placing it on a bookshelf, somewhere people could easily see it when walking in. Although the writer’s story was left unfinished, perhaps others who enjoyed browsing would take his words to lead their own actions. The date on the last letter nagged at Aziraphale though, he was sure it was important for some reason.

Going back to cleaning after hours of just reading, though that wasn’t unexpected with this principality, his thoughts were lost as he dusted just enough to not damage the books but leaving enough to deter customers. He brought out his storage and began displaying the newer books he acquired, his eyes wandering back to the box more and more often. When he remembered, he dropped a first edition of Jane Austen’s _Pride and Prejudice_.

The letter’s date was one day before Crowley laid to rest for nearly a century, the day he had asked for the holy water that saved them both. Oh good lord.


	2. Love Can Be Bottled but It Just Grows More and More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I was in a writing mood but couldn't decide the best way to continue this to enjoy my gay letters till I figure out how to write more.

_July 18th, 1862_

_When someone reaches out and touches you in such a loving, caring way, it is hard to tell if they really want you or if they just want someone. Someone to care about, to love and to hold. If they just feel the years drag by like you do yourself, if they also feel like no one can quite understand what it is like. I never know with you my angel, if you have grown to love me like I have you from the second I saw you, or if you only keep me around due to convenience. I love you with my whole heart, I would do near anything for you, all you must do is ask._

_December 25th, 1861_

_I have thought about your arms around me, holding me tight and close like I matter. These delusions of grandeur making me feel like I could do anything, and you would accept me like it was nothing. How much of it is true? Would you leave me in the dust if anyone found out?_

_March 16th, 1862_

_Sometimes I ask myself if I am worthy of this, of receiving your love and attention, of being able to spend all this time with you. Watching you read and eat, enjoying as many human indulgences that you can let yourself get away with. I cannot say I understand the way you think, how rapidly your mind works when needed. I love you for this, for any reason you give I find a new reason to love you. Am I worthy of this? To feel and love? Is it a blessing or a curse? Why let me remember these feelings and know they cannot be returned? Why torture me so, dear god above? My angel I need you to understand my love is fragile and old, survived through time and broken and dropped. My love there are many cracks and you deserve so much better I know, but this is all I have. Please forgive this sin and allow me to love you._


	3. I've Been Scrawling It Forever But It Never Made Sense To Me Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love comes in many forms, and everyone has their own love languages. Be sure to know other's love languages, for what you believe to show your love might be true for you, the other might not realize its importance.

When one thinks about their state of life, most of the time they will look at it and think, “Yep, looks about right, sounds about right, feels about right,” and not think much else of it. It doesn’t matter if that way of life is unhealthy, if that way of life makes them unhappy, it’s the only life they’ve ever known.

Crowley wandered into a bookshop in the Soho district with a sure stride, for he had taken this walk many times before. He knew the bookshop like the back of his hand, probably better than he knew his own flat in Mayfield. He walked between the bookshelves and admired the disorganization, specifically designed to frustrate and discourage those who wished to purchase one of the many novels and manuscripts. He needn’t wander but he did so with a sole reason, to make sure his box of letters was safe and sound, untouched by the owner of the bookshop but perhaps by those too afraid to confront their own romantic inclinations. Maybe his own words would help those too afraid like he was, and unlike he, act before it was too late.

The box was drawn and written on with such a careful hand Crowley would feel ashamed if he were confronted by showmanship. It was quite a work of art, years of work poured into a courting gift that the maker knew would never reach it’s intended audience. Crowley tended to not think about a lot of things, it was easier that way. To not think about his love, how he was too fast for the angel, about how it never felt like the angel could accept him for who he was. He was a demon after all, he was unforgivable.

The apocalypse had come and gone, nothing more than a few news stories being reported with the help of the Anti-Christ’s interference. It was a lovely story to be told if one cared to hear it, how everything returned to normal despite all odds. Crowley wished for more though. Maybe it was the curse of a demon, always wanting and wishing for more. Wishing for an angel to love him despite all odds, wishing for the love of his possibly immortal life to love him back like he had loved the angel since saw him on the Garden wall, so unsure after gifting humanity protection. A demon was unforgivable, he must remember. To hope for anything more would just crush the little hope he still held close to his chest.

Never minding all that for now, he came to the place he kept the neat box, only nothing was there. It wouldn’t be the first time, when the shop was open, he often found others reading the letters and refused to acknowledge his interference to get people to just bloody confess. However, the shop was closed today, and there were only two people here as far as he knew, if those two really counted as people in the end.

The point being, Crowley could not find the treasured box. His box full of cherished memories and longings, his treasure that would reveal his heart and soul to those who read it. He was quite happy he never signed any of those blasted letters, those letters written in times of such longing that overpowered everything else in life, his own thoughts of anything being interrupted by his dear angel. Perhaps the box had been bought or stolen, the latter preferred for at least then the angel who had stolen a demon’s heart would never know of his feelings. A demon was not meant to love, they were meant to feel those deadly sins of humans to end up in hell, but Crowley was always an odd ball. He was always questioning and talking, constantly piling his questions on the Almighty like it was a game. A game of whose heart could last the constant blows the longest.

* * *

God would never reveal Her hand, but She would end up sometimes on Her knees praying for Her son who asked so many valid questions but didn’t understand the price for those questions.

* * *

Aziraphale had been pacing his study all day, having let the bookshop remain closed for the day, for it seemed a valid reason. He had just realized his love loved him back after all, and had for much longer than Aziraphale had realized what the fuzzy feelings and love for making the other happy entailed. What it meant when he could feel Crowley enter the neighbourhood, the confusion to feel love when around Crowley when usually it seemed to fade away when he came. He always thought it was due to the demon that Crowley was, but maybe it was due to the immense love he felt.

There were many times Aziraphale found himself questioning if the other ethereal being enjoyed his company, if he only dealt with the angel due to proximity. He brushed off every kind gesture, every soft look, the gentle hand he used with only children and himself. Crowley had always been a bit of a wild card, always shifting and changing depending on the circumstances, able to adapt in ways that Aziraphale always found challenging. Aziraphale was always a hundred years behind, content with staying a certain way till he had to change, while he felt Crowley was something different every meeting. How could one love change, yet stay with one who was always the same?

Now, he froze, feeling that wave of love come from right outside the bookshop door, quickly coming into the shop. Aziraphale let out a long breath, having not even realized he was holding it to begin with, his heart fluttering like it always had around the demon. All the excuses were invalid of course, every reason and thought to excuse these feelings gone as now he knew, it was love. A deep love that could really only be curated after so long in each other’s company. His eyes drifted to the box still on his desk, the letters scattered, Crowley would realize the box was gone if he looked, and the angel couldn’t decide if he wanted the demon to look or not.

Aziraphale quickly, but carefully, put all the letters back into the box, making sure not to bend or tear any of them, he would hate for Crowley to think he didn’t take care of his things. Once they were all safely away once more, he made his way back to where he found the letters, certain that’s where Crowley would go. Afterall, the demon hadn’t come to say hello yet, and it had been minutes since he arrived.

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat when he caught sight of Crowley, tightening his grip on the box. He would always be amazed by the other, heart stuttering at the sight of him due to the love that immediately filled his chest, the longing he felt when he caught sight of his profile, catching the faintest glimpse of his golden eyes. Aziraphale always felt privileged when the demon would allow him to see his eyes fully, catching sight of how they crinkled and squinted when he was happy, narrowing along with his furrowed brows when he was suspicious or angry, downcasted and vulnerable when he thought of days long gone. The angel’s heart was in deep, and he knew there was no way he would be able to pretend he hadn’t read the letters, hadn’t read the words proclaiming time and time again the demon’s love, his longing, his desire for anything, any kind of affection or even acceptance. It hurt his heart in ways the angel knew they would when he thought about it, for Crowley was his best friend, and what kind of friend didn’t realize the other held such strong feelings for themselves?

“Aziraphale?” The tone of his voice indicated that this wasn’t the first time the demon had called for him, his body facing the angel, hands hanging at his sides like they often did. He wasn’t one who held himself close, protecting, afraid. Crowley was so unlike Aziraphale in that sense, and it made it harder for Aziraphale to fully acknowledge that this meant nothing in regards to love. “Where-how-when did you find that box?”

At least he had been straightforward. Aziraphale had prepared an excuse, having it at the tip of his tongue, but there didn’t seem to be a reason to keep it there. Crowley had bulldozed through that plan, like he often did, and only when he hadn’t meant to.

“Well, you see.” Aziraphale’s hands gripped the box delicately, placing it gently back into the spot it rested for over a century now, “I had been dusting today, and I happened upon a box I wasn’t sure where it came from. You see, it was quite intricately designed and looked well loved, well cared for, somehow preserved through time despite my never having seen it before.” Aziraphale paused, letting his eyes wander up to where Crowley was standing, noticing how the man had froze, refusing to move a single muscle. “I stumbled upon this box, and admittedly let my curiosity get the best of me. Maybe this box had been hidden for another to find, but it was in my shop so I figured as the owner I could look at anything I damn pleased.” His lips turned up. “I found the most wonderous letters. Full of longing and grief, love that was believed to be unrequited.”

“Believed to be?” Crowley’s voice was but a croak, his mouth open so slightly, his glasses slipping just enough to see the surprise in those golden eyes. Aziraphale felt his heart beat in his chest, the feeling being overwhelming, making it feel like he could do anything. His chest felt so full he could shout.

“Indeed. You see, these letters seemed to have never been sent, hence why they were in my bookshop. Perhaps they were a courting gift, or a way to get through this love. They went on for a lifetime, years of letters being filled to the brim with so much love they still radiated it. Imagine that, over a hundred years later and that love is still remembered.” He slowly walked forward, shoes clicking quietly on the wooden floors but sounded so much louder than normal, if only due to the complete quiet in the shop. “I wonder if they were found by others before me, who came across these letters by some sort of chance, maybe even fate if we believed such a thing. I know you loathe God’s plans, but maybe even her interference could be part of it.” The angel’s hands reached up and cupped the demon’s face, hands so soft and plump, meant to be held it seemed. A touch starved creature that was Crowley leaned in, looking down with wide eyes. Neither seemed to believe this was happening. “Those letters seemed to be for those wondering, if they had a chance at all, if they should even hope. The letters talked about a love that lasted for a lifetime, but none know it lasted so much longer, didn’t it my dear? I’m so sorry for ignoring it.”

Hands reached up and held onto the angel’s hands, holding them, still as the demon turned his head and gently kissed the angel’s palms. It was a tender move that had both smiling so softly.

“Words upon words that never really had a beginning or an end.” Crowley’s voice was thick with something, his eyes closed behind the sunglasses perched on his nose still. “The meaning behind them I never really tried to think about. I only wrote what I felt, my memories of what God would torment me with. She loved to remind me how much my love was impossible, how She cursed me so. Who would ever love a demon?” His eyes opened and looked over his sunglasses right into Aziraphale’s blue eyes. Crowley didn’t let the other move, keeping him in place. “Well. We never did claim to be good at our jobs had we?”

Aziraphale felt himself smile at that. “Well, we did stop the apocalypse my dear. That went right against orders from above and below I do believe.”

“An angel and a demon, too human for both aren’t we?” Crowley grinned. A hand on the angel’s hip, pulling him chest to chest with the demon.

“Well, we were ordered to love the humans, weren’t we?” Aziraphale adjusted, allowing intimacy that would’ve sent him balking ten years ago. “What is a greater form of love than saving them all despite everything?”

“That’s about angels y’know. Demons have no such command, if anything we should hate them with all our unholy being.”

“Well, yes, but we do come from the same stock after all.” Aziraphale kissed the other gently, a peck more than anything, but it was so much more and so much less than what they’ve done in these hundreds of thousands of years. All the small gestures, the memories and the thoughtful actions speaking so much more. Yet, it was such a small affection they hadn’t allowed themselves to have. Anything that couldn’t be brushed away was forbidden, for certainly an enemy would remember how one liked their cup of tea so they could poison it one day. An enemy didn’t, and couldn’t, kiss someone so tenderly that they forgot the time, the day, the year. That was cruelty that even hell didn’t approve.

“Shut up.” The words were spoken with such affection that left them both smiling widely, the demon returning the kiss eagerly. This one went deeper, lasting longer than the last, and both parties certainly enjoyed it a great deal. When one waits thousands of years for something, it’s hard to pull them away from that.

“My-my dear. As much as I would like to continue this, I must ask something.” Aziraphale tried, putting a small distance between them, trying to overcome the urge to bring Crowley closer once more and continue. “Please. Just a moment.”

“Mm, fine, what is it?” Crowley would deny sulking at the command, and it was lucky for him that only Aziraphale was in the room.

“Well. Why, hmm. Why didn’t you send those letters?” Aziraphale asked, looking straight into the other’s eyes, having pushed up those troublesome sunglasses somewhere between running his hands through his red hair and hugging him closer. It had been nagging at him, as things often do when left unanswered. They were similar in that sense, unable to leave things alone for too long before asking questions. “They were quite lovely. I would have loved to have read them before. Not that I don’t appreciate them now! I really, truly am happy that I was able to read them eventually, but why wait? Why not tell me when the world would have ended and it not matter anymore?”

The demon made quite an unusual noise at that. It was hard to tell if he had meant for those noises to be words or simply a gut reaction at being called out like that. If all were honest, he was most surprised that it happened now and not later, and admittedly he had hoped for it to happen later and if possible, never.

“Nnk. Um, well, mmm, you see. I uhm, hmm, didn’t quite. Expect for you to, ever uh, find these. They were mostly written in desperation...?” That seems to have been the wrong reply however, at the pitiful noise Aziraphale made at it. “No. Uh, hmmm. You, you see. I didn’t quite allow myself to believe you could love me back..?” It was like he was trying to hide within himself with not curling in, eyes flicking back and forth between Aziraphale and anything behind him. “An angel, loving a demon? You didn’t mind my company, if you had you would’ve discorporated me. But you didn’t, so you had to have liked me at least somewhat. That doesn’t tell me if you love me though. Even with all the gestures and shit we’ve done for each other, it was never a sure thing. Just that, we were friendly even if we couldn’t say we were friends. When I called you a friend at the end, you denied it.”

Aziraphale held Crowley’s face within his hands, eyes shining with tears as he was faced with all the lies and deceit that he allowed himself to put his best friend through. Their situation mattered, of course it did, it hadn’t been safe, but perhaps he could’ve allowed more, more than simple compliance and friendliness. Gestures could only mean so much, and to have so much left to interpretation was cruel. Crowley showed his love in so many ways, and what had Aziraphale shown? What had he done? He should’ve shown something closer to love than tolerance, something that showed his feelings better than whatever he decided to go with before. It was an old hurt than Crowley felt, so old that it was barely there anymore, covered with scar tissue and denial, Aziraphale gave the man before him a soft kiss, not full of lust like the previous ones had, but full of passion none the less. He would make it up to Crowley no matter what.

“I need you to know, I have loved you since the beginning. When you talked and listened, which was a new sensation for me. No one listened to me before, they only wanted to be listened to. Before I realized it, I loved you. The first time I know it was love was when we stood before the Arch, and I saw the way you planned to save those who God hadn’t deemed worthy. Then I realized I loved you when you save my books, prancing through a church that left you hobbling for a week after.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and sighed, pulling away slightly to look at Crowley better, face his beautiful eyes. “There’ve been so many times, so many reasons to love you that it would take me years to recount them all to you. If you want me to, I will though. I want you to understand that even when I’ve been a fool and denied it, I loved you. I love you. And I can only hope you forgive my being an idiot and not realizing it sooner.”

“All that I ask is that you allow me to love you openly, like I’ve wanted to for years.” Crowley’s words were soft, and the angel had denied Crowley so much while the demon listened to every request Aziraphale had.

“Of course, as long as you allow me to do the same.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley again, and again, and again. Neither paid attention to the day and night passing, lost within each other. They had spent centuries sleeping or in denial, avoiding each other or attached at the hip. So much of their time on earth had been wasted, and they vowed to not let the coming years be a waste as well.

Eventually they will return, and if it was day once more that’s their business. There was a lot to be discussed, what the letters meant and the events that led up to them. How Aziraphale can rest assured that he wouldn’t do that to Crowley again. For now, though, knowing they loved each other was enough. Knowing they weren’t alone anymore, that their own side was true was enough.

_ September 30th, 2019_

_I do not believe you ever thought you’d be on this side of the letter, my dear. I do not have a way with words like you do, I cannot make metaphors to compare your eyes to gems or the way they make my chest feel too small for the heart I do not have to have. Your letters brought me so much joy though, and I want you to experience it as well. I want you to know that I love you so much._

_ Sincerely yours,_

_ Aziraphale_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing this chapter since September, soon after the first had been published I began this one. I hope you enjoyed this journey. If you want to discuss anything or chat just send an ask over at my tumblr goodforsomeone!


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